


Five Doors

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: Songs of Heaven: Booker Dewitt + Elizabeth Comstock [2]
Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Chronic Illness, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Injury, New York City, Parallel Universes, Paris (City), Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:46:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five different Booker DeWitts open five very different doors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Doors

Booker DeWitt staggered through his front door, his legs scarcely holding him.  The floorboards bucked beneath him, and his head rocked and wheeled.  It was better than thinking clearly.  Anything was, wasn’t it?

The door latched behind him and he tripped over the chair in his path, smashing headlong into the floor.  He barely felt the impact, his limbs flailing like a ragdoll’s when he hit.  He lifted up his head, not registering the blood trickling from his nose.

“Anna,” he slurred.  There was no response.  “Anna!”

He dragged himself to his feet, holding onto the desk for balance.  “Don’t forget, you son of a bitch,” he growled into the empty room.  “Teach you, you fucking sack of shit.”  The things on the surface of his desk bobbed like detritus on an incoming wave.  His pocket knife gleamed in the dim light from the moon outside.

His left hand snaked out.  Air forced itself through his nose; he felt like a bull ready for the charge.  _Hold still.  Hold fucking still._

His flesh ripped, dragging under the blade.  It was dull but he didn’t care; it simply meant he had to use more of a sawing motion.  He barely felt it, the flesh parting under dirty steel.  His body weaved from side to side but his hand stayed true and steady.  Blood beaded, welled, dribbled. 

Booker dropped the knife; it hit the desk with a small sound.  He was breathing heavily, his eyes stinging.  Blood smeared on booking sheets and tattered receipts.  Booker clenched his right fist, and the motion made the fresh cuts burn.  His hand trembled up until he punched the wall.

 

***

 

Wide double doors, dingy, with clear round panes in them.  Booker DeWitt saw them slam open, but something was wrong with the perspective.  Why was he lying down?

Sounds were thick and muffled, coming as if from deep underwater.  He tried to open his mouth but only a garble emerged.  He was moving, with shadows tall above him spurring him onward, but they were receding into the distance.

The voices became more distinct.  He lay there, trying to catch his breath, but something was wrong.  He touched his mouth – the effort to move his hand was unbelievable – and felt rubber tubing.  He could not understand why it was so difficult to breathe.

“What’s wrong with my daddy?”

Anna.  What was she doing here?  He took another breath, and it felt like he was drowning, though he could not feel the water.

A man’s voice, clipped, cold.  “He’s been shot.”  More syllables, fading away.

Small hands on his arm.  He managed to turn his face, and there – there was Anna, blue eyes wide, lip trembling, tears streaking her cheeks.  She was in her pajamas, her dark hair mussed.  Her nanny was a dim blur behind her. 

He tried to speak again but he was tired, so tired.  He tried to tell her that he wasn’t supposed to be working tonight, that he knew he was supposed to come home and read her a story before bed.  He tried to say that he was sorry.

A little hand in his own, her arm wrapped round his chest, her damp face pressed next to his.  Her skin was so soft.  A stream of desperate words in his ears: “Stay with me, Daddy, stay with me, stay with me.” 

Another promise broken.

 

***

 

Booker DeWitt sat in the waiting area, an old fan ticking slowly above his head.  He smoothed his suit, liking the way his hand slid over the slick fibers.  It was a good suit, one that he deserved to wear, and it fit him well.

He reached inside the jacket and pulled out a small book from the inner pocket.  The pages were becoming worn, no longer crisp and new.  He had studied from this book as aggressively, and as wholeheartedly, as he had with every endeavor in his life.

Sweat slid down the back of his neck, into his new beard.  He wiped it away with the back of his hand, then looked at the liquid, glistening upon his hand like a mark.  The sweat of a brow could lead to so many things, the possibilities endless.

He glanced around the room, carefully studying the other faces there.  He believed he could mark them in that instant by their abilities.  The Irish with the shock of red hair in the corner, he was a drunkard but a genius with machines.  Booker could see the outline of a flask in the man’s pocket, and grease stains under his nails.  The woman across from him with a stern, discerning gaze; her gender could not diminish her mind.  He could see it working steadily even while she appeared to do nothing.  The keenness of her eye pierced him, and he bowed his head in a slight nod to her.

His hands slipped on the spine of the book, flipping open to a familiar page.  _John answered, saying unto them all, I indeed baptize you with water; but one mightier than I cometh, the latchet of whose shoes I am not worthy to unloose: he shall baptize you with the Holy Ghost and with fire._ His heart swelled to remember water lapping around his waist.

“Mr. DeWitt?” a voice called.  Booker looked up.  A reedy old man stood, beckoning him to his office.  Booker replaced the book back into his jacket and rose to his feet, not bothering to put out his hand for a handshake.  He followed the man into his office, and closed the heavy oaken door behind them.   It swung easily on its well-oiled hinges.

“You are applying for a name change, today, sir?” the clerk asked, settling down behind the desk and reaching for his ledger.  “And what name do you wish to take?”

Booker carefully sat down in the tattered chair opposite the man.  He could feel the history behind what he was about to do; could feel it tingeing his every movement.  He leaned forward, his fingers interlacing, and flashed the man a smile.  “Comstock, son.  Zachary Hale Comstock.”

 

***

 

Booker DeWitt gazed down to the bottom of his glass, where only hints of amber still persisted in the dim light.  He looked weakly over to the bartender.  “Come on, Charlie, I need another.”

“Booker, you know better,” Charlie said, shrugging.  “You know the boss hates it when you pass out here.  You’re about to hit that point, see if you aren’t.  I hate to kick you out but it’s my job, you know?”  He cleaned another glass and set it down.  Booker could see the pity in the other man’s eyes, but he didn’t care.  

“Just another whiskey, Charlie, just one.  Give you an extra five for it.”  Booker tapped his wallet against the bar, his hand barely coordinated enough to do so. 

“All right, but you’d better clear out of here before you get sick,” Charlie warned.  “You’re not looking too good lately, man.”

“Fuck off,” said Booker, and slid the money across the table.

Tonight he couldn’t even remember what he was trying to forget.   There was an ache in his belly that had been getting worse the past few weeks; drinking seemed to keep it at bay temporarily, but it always returned, bringing with it headaches and nausea.   The liquor couldn’t keep everything at bay, though.  Ghosts seemed to haunt him more than they used.  Pale boys in the Great War dying in trenches, in the mud, in the cold.  Bodies face down in the muddy water, red staining the earth.  They’d asked him to keep them safe, but bullets and bayonets found them despite what he could do.  They weren’t the only ones, just the most recent; it had only been four years.  But beyond their faces he could hear screams from women and horses, the soft wails of a baby echoing in an empty space.

Booker shivered.  He couldn’t seem to keep warm, lately, and his clothes weren’t fitting him right.  They sagged and hung on him in strange ways.  He downed the whiskey, hoping it would warm him the way the first several hadn’t.

He glanced back at Charlie, standing in the center of the empty bar.  The light shining off the man’s bald head seemed blinding, but when Booker turned his head away, the light persisted.  It shone around him, harsh, unyielding.  His mouth tingled.  He tried to speak but his tongue was thick and clumsy.  Then he was on the ground, his muscles jerking, head slamming into the floor again and again.

Booker couldn’t move.  The pain in his belly was overwhelming.  Vomit trickled from his mouth, and the world swam before him.  He heard breaking glasses, running feet. 

“Booker?  Booker?  Ahh, shit --”

Anna laid there in her crib, beautiful girl that she was.  She struggled to form a smile, and laughed, kicking her feet.  He reached for her, wanting to feel that smallness in his arms one more time, just one more time.  How could something so small weigh so heavy on him…  _Give us the girl, and wipe away the debt!_

“I didn’t know what to do for him, he just – he just fell over!  Some kinda seizure or something!”

“Don’t blame yourself.  There was nothing you could have done.  I’ve examined the body, and this man was in an advanced state of liver failure.  It was only a matter of time.”

“Shit – really?  I didn’t know…”

“Did he have any kin to inform?”

“Jeez.  Ah, no, no.  Lived alone.  Never talked about anybody.  I don’t think the war did him too good.”

They shifted the body onto a stretcher, and together they carried the body through the shabby back door with the peeling paint.  The coroner’s van was ready and waiting.

 

***

 

Booker DeWitt stood in the Metro car, one hand firm on the baggage, the other hand gripping Anna’s as tightly as he could.  She giggled, looking up at him.

“Now, you remember what station we’re getting off at, don’t you?” Booker asked her before turning to survey the car.  Pickpockets were always on the lookout for tourists, but Booker squared his shoulders, and patted his jacket until the outline of his holster was made clear.  He might be here with Anna, but old habits took long to forget.

Anna stood up as tall as she could, which was still not yet to Booker’s midsection.  “The Trocadéro, Daddy!”  She carefully watched the name of the next station as it came into view.  “We’re here!”  She pulled on his arm until they were standing right in front of the doors.  He could feel the way she was shaking with excitement. 

The doors of the Metro slid open, smooth mechanics pulling them to either side.  Anna leapt through and Booker followed behind, and they hit the platform at a run, Booker unable to keep the six-year-old from running.  To tell the truth, seeing the way she skipped at his side was enough to keep him running, too. 

They skidded to a stop once they had climbed the stairs.  They turned, slowly, and Anna let out a squeal of pure delight.  The Eiffel Tower stood before them across the Seine.  For a moment they simply stared at it in silence, the metal arcing up in symmetry, the throngs of brightly colored people below, the boats on the river.  The sun shone on the girders, the reflections brilliant as they played across the water of the river.  He couldn’t wait for her to see the place at night.

“Anna,” said Booker quietly.  She turned to face him, her eyes bright and her face filled with a glee he couldn’t bear.  He swept her up into his arms, pulling her close but turning so that she could keep her eyes on the great tower.  She flung her arms around his shoulders.

“Daddy,” she breathed, “I love you.”

Booker held his daughter tightly, pressing a kiss to her cheek, unable to keep a smile from his face.  “Come on, Anna.  Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest I could probably have gone on killing Booker for like twenty segments but figured it might start to get a little overkill. God, the man's angst is sooooo easy to work with!


End file.
